


Of Emancipation and Trust

by pilotisms



Series: Of Growth and Love [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Darth Maul Lives, F/M, Jabba's Palace, Mention of the Galactic Slave Trade, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, but Darth Maul also had his legs chopped off, not his entire fuckin torso, slave!reader - Freeform, so he can lay that sweet sweet zabrak pipe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22551196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: Maul, Savage and Viszla work to form the Shadow Collective. They arrive at Jabba’s Palace not anticipating a barter – but they walk away with the upper hand and fifteen slaves, including yourself.(Set during s5e14 of the Clone Wars.)
Relationships: Darth Maul & Savage Opress, Darth Maul/Original Character(s), Darth Maul/Original Female Character(s), Darth Maul/Reader
Series: Of Growth and Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622554
Comments: 8
Kudos: 269





	Of Emancipation and Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, this fic has tropes of space slavery, mentions of abuse, mentions of dubcon, and general sleaziness associated with the Hutts.

The first time he ever lays his eyes upon you, you’re no more than a piece of property, being paraded around by the very slug the Sith Lord had set out to _end_ – you’re pretty enough for a _human,_ a rare species for Jabba to have so closely kept. You have soft eyes and a quiet way of moving about, submission etched into your skin in the form of various scars running along your spine. 

You are one of many infamous Tattooine cantina girls. 

Nothing more, nothing less.

As is the way of the world.

In the dim light of the palace, Maul thinks nothing of this exchange in passing glances – the way your eyes wander with curiosity upon his entrance is something he’s grown accustomed to; this side of the universe’s infatuation with Zabraks stems from an exotic slave trade, he learned many cycles ago. Zabrak males, like himself and his dear brother Savage, would be _prized_ if unlucky enough to befall the same fate as you. Perhaps this is why your eyes roam and he senses the prick of attention crawl across his skin – or, perhaps it’s because you’ve never _seen_ a Zabrak before, let alone a Dathomirian Night Brother.

Curious.

_You_ seem prized enough, knees tucked neatly under you, perched to the right hand of Jabba the Hutt – there’s a tray of fruit in your hands, outstretched in an unwavering hold for the Hutt to pick from. You steal away one more glance at the Zabrak, his brother, and the Mandalorian trailing them, before ducking your head.

Maul ignores your stolen looks. After all, he has more pressing matters, like negotiating the relieved powers of the Hutt Cartel into the Shadow Collective alongside the Black Suns, the Pykes, and the Death Watch. Though, he must say he wasn’t anticipating a _barter_ – 

“[Surely this must have been a miscommunication, Darth Maul],” the Hutt grovels in Huttese, your first language, “[The incident on Nal Hutta was –]”

“An _unfortunate_ show of cruelty,” Maul drawls, lip curling, “Wasn’t it, brother?”  


Savage nearly laughs. “ _Quite_ , brother.”

“One that we are _not_ afraid to curate once more, Jabba.”  


The pointed edge of his words draw up upon the Hutt’s jugular like a dagger; it’s stunning how the mere words of the Zabrak, lilted with poise and fear, seem to startle the Hutt into submission.

“[We will join the collective.]”  


You try your best to pretend you aren’t listening – that the words fall on deaf ears. Just as you’ve been taught, you keep your head hung low and posture bowed. 

“[Please, in show of good faith for our agreement, accept fifteen of my finest slaves.]”  


Maul notes the stiffening of your posture at those words. Jabba gestures to a guard, chattering something quickly in Huttese – your eyes rise, wide with a sense of panic that bubbles up in your throat. 

There’s a sudden clamor, then, and Maul glances over his shoulder at the huddle of women and younger girls, some hardly old enough for puberty among their various species, being herded into the room by one particularly sweaty Gamorrean guard. 

The sight alone stirs a wave of anger that pricks beneath his skin. Savage, too, makes a low sound of anger. 

“We do not want their _slaves,_ brother –”  


Maul raises his hand quickly. The larger Zabrak falls silent. 

The Palace falls silent, waiting on the word of Maul.

He speaks slowly.

“… Can they _cook?”_  


Jabba, that insufferable slug, chortles an amused laugh. Your lip twitches in anger. Your grip on the tray wavers as you sit up straighter, eyes falling to your sisters in bondage that are now being huddled to the center of the room. 

Jabba snorts. “[Cook – hardly! Dance, fuck! Those are their jobs!]”

Savage makes a disgusted sound. “We do not _need_ extra mouths to feed –”  


“We can cook,” you speak quietly but quickly, eyes connecting with the golden ones of the crimson skinned Zabrak leading the invading party, “and mend and heal.”  


Your words are broken with an accent that reminds him of Huttese – but, there’s a twang there that Maul can’t seem to place. It’s… pretty. Melodic and soft, like the rest of you. _Pleasing._ Different, but _pleasing._  


Suddenly, your collar is yanked and you wince, hands dropping the tray and flying to your throat as you cough – the jolt had robbed you of the air in your lungs. Your lip snarls as you bow once more, shoulders heaving as you attempt to catch your breath. 

_ Very curious.  _

“And her?” Maul asks, raising a finger towards you, “She will come with the others, yes?”  


Jabba scowls. “[Speaks many languages this one – sings, dances, fucks – expensive slave! Worth many, _many_ credits –]”

With a terrible hiss, a blood-red saber ignites and bathes the room in a fearful color of light – your eyes widen, turned upwards towards the sight; the lightsaber is held to the gullet of the Hutt in the hands of the Zabrak. You can see the posture of a warrior there, set in his strong stance and dangerous croon. 

“Worth more credits than your _life,_ Jabba?”  


The second time he ever lays his eyes upon you, it’s on the transport to Zanbar. You’re quietly speaking in a language he doesn’t recognize to the other slaves, hands on the knees of two young Twi’lek girls who look terrified – not that he can blame them. They’re _young,_ no doubt having never been outside the Palace. 

He watches closely as you kneel before them, speaking quickly. They nod, hands finding yours before you part. You move to sit by the far wall, knees pulled tight to your chest, and watch the invaders – Deathwatch, you’ve come to realize, and two Sith brothers. 

Curious, indeed. 

You watch the one they call Maul. He is poised by the cockpit, chattering with his brother – the one who must bend a bit to even _fit_ in the Mandalorian cargo ship. His eyes, golden and warm, fleet to the group of slaves with every other word. 

You wonder if this was a bad idea. 

You’ve been passed to other owners before – three times now – but… the circumstances of this are different. Very different. Never has an owner offered you a bartering chip to then-rival, now-allied _crime syndicate_ leaders. No, you’ve been _sold_ before – your name changed and life up-ended to a new way of existing. But this… It has the young girls, four of them, quaking with fear. Two twi’lek sisters and two Togrutas – all four born in the Palace walls to mother’s sold many cycles ago. The others _know_ the song and dance, but barely speak enough basic to understand the swirling complications around them.

You try your best to translate, to soothe the fears of the younger girls and inform the others. 

Amber eyes land upon you and you don’t bother to hide your stare. 

He thinks nothing of it – fear, he realizes, must drive your wandering eyes. He’s not sure he could blame you. Distrust crackles in the air between the slaves and the members of the Shadow Collective on board. 

And as is the way of the world.

The third time he ever lays his eyes upon you is over firelight – the main encampment of the Death Watch is bustling with activity, and dinner itself is an event; leave it to the Mandalorians to make a _show_ of almost anything. You and the other girls sit on cushions along the mess tents walls, scooping wads of stew onto bread and smiling contentedly at one another as you chew – there’s a murmur of chatter quietly floating about, one that brings a smile to your face. 

A pretty smile. Soft and sweet. 

Someone says something, one of the younger girls, and the entire coven of women laugh warmly.

It draws silence among the main table, prompting the man who you’d come to know as Pre Viszla to quirk a brow. His voice is laced with amusement, chin raised as he eyes the cluster of Tattooine working girls with a level of wonder. The other warrior, do the same – Maul is pushing around a mound of stew when Viszla speaks.

“Is something _funny,_ girls?”  


Mouths fall open. Panicked whispers fleet between the slaves. You rush to quell the rising panic, waving a hand at the others who ask if they are in trouble; you rush explain quickly, in a harsh melody of syllables in the slave dialect of Huttese, that all is fine –

“The young one, Mi’a,” you speak loudly, to Viszla at the head of the table, “Says that you cook very well – that you may not need our services, after all.”  


That riles a bought of laughter from the Mandalorians. Even the Dathomirians manage a smirk. 

You continue. “We are very thankful. This meal is most gracious.”

“It’s nothing special,” it’s the one who calls herself a Nite Owl that speaks, “Stew.”

“But it is warm,” you bow your head and the others follow suite, “And we thank you.”  


It’s late when he lays his eyes upon you for the fourth time, now.

There’s a rapt against the frame of his tent. Maul, at first, believes that only _Viszla_ would be daring enough to bother him _this late…_ most likely with more questions pertaining to the plan after all this is said and done. The Sith, wrapped in nothing but dark trousers that hang low on his waist, grits his teeth upon rising from the cot in the corner of his tent. 

When he pulls open his tent’s flap and finds you…

Well, he wonders how he ever thought nothing of you. Hours ago, he wouldn’t have anticipated his anger falling short at the sight of you before him, clutching a warm tray of food.

You’re rather beautiful in a terribly, weakening way.

Your voice is soft when you speak.

“Did I wake you?”  


Amber eyes blink down at you. The Zabrak swallows. “No.”

You can’t tell if he’s lying – his voice is smooth and low, like a thunderous storm and you lose yourself in it. You bow your head slightly, the moon swallowing the shadows of your face. 

“I noticed you didn’t eat.”  


Another bought of silence.

Maul pulls the tent flap aside, then, and you blink.

It’s not until he gestures with a nod, horns brushing against the flap above his head, and speaks curtly, that you follow. “Come in.”

You do so with low eyes, movements graceful and quiet. His tent is small, but filled with the comforting warm light of a lamp on the far table – on it, sit a lightsaber and various tools. Your gaze is hitched on the sight when he clears his throat, prompting you to snap your head around and hold your breath. 

“You,” he squints, “have a bad habit of _staring_.”  


You drop your chin. “I apologize –”  


“Why?”  


A confused blink. “… I’m sorry?”

“Why do you _stare?”_ he asks lowly, nostrils flaring slightly as he steps forward, “Out of fear, perhaps?”  


Your face softens. Something akin to disappointment ripples around you. He feels it in the force. 

“… Is that what you’d like, then?” you ask softly, as if fulfilling a request, “For me to be afraid?”  


… He wasn’t anticipating that. Not with the kind nature of which you express it. Soft, sweet, quiet. You hold the tray level and hold his eye contact. He’s the one who breaks it out the sudden rush of _shame_ that creeps under his skin. 

“No.”  


You sigh – not _really a sigh,_ more like a slow exhale that settles your posture – before you move to set the tray of food upon the workbench that serves as a perch for his saber. Your back is to him while you speak, gaze roaming over the weapon as you clasp your hands tightly in front of you. 

“I have never met a Night Brother before.”  


You turn, then, face set in a kind expression. 

“I’ve read about Dathomir in data-tapes,” you offer, frowning, “I apologize if my staring made you uncomfortable, I had no intention –”  


“I’m used to it.”  


He crosses the room, then, and stands beside you at the table. Quickly, he plucks a piece of fruit from the tray and grips it in a steady hand. You watch closely, noting the tattoos along the ridges of his knuckles. 

“Are you…?”  


“Quite.”  


“And yet it still unsettles you,” you frown, “Or else you wouldn’t have mentioned it –”  


“You do not know me, _girl.”_

A wince. You bow your head. “My apologies.”

Again, shame crawls up Maul’s throat at the reaction. He bites his tongue and closes his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose – exasperatedly, the Zabrak runs his hand over his jaw before putting the jackfruit down.

“No, I – It is I who is being… _unkind_.”  


Curious.

The lamplight flickers and makes him look softer than he is; the jagged lines of his tattoos melt into the night’s darkness as he moves through the tent and settles on the edge of his cot. Maul crosses his arms tightly and you wonder if you’ve made him uncomfortable – his posture certainly begs the question. 

"What is your name?”

Your mouth moves but nothing comes out.

Confusion flares at the question.

Does he want your birth name? Or the five others you’ve come to be called? Or the Huttese nicknames the others have for you – flower, sunrise, or auntie? Or… or perhaps a flourished, colorful dancing name, or maybe a working girls title? You have a number on your hip and a _chip_ there with a _designation_ –

“It is a simple question.”  


You bite your tongue. “For some, yes.”

Maul’s head tilts.

“You may give me a name –”  


He recoils slightly in disgust. 

“You do not have one?”  


“I have many –”  


“What do you _like_ to be called, then?”  


None of them feel right. You are not who you were all those years ago when your mother and yourself were sold as slaves to the moisture farms in Mos Eisley. Nor are you the girl you were when you first became a dancer – the owner of that cantina had called you Viiliia. You had always hated that name. You are not Faie, or Grigilia, or P’io… And though the nicknames the others have for you in Huttese are sweet, they’re recycled and spoken in hushed whispers. Not _yours._

Maul senses the hesitation. His heart wanes for some terribly curious reason.

“I do not know.”  


“…Then we will find one for you, sweet one.” 

He utters it slowly, weighing the promise with enough conviction to bring a slight smile to your face. His eyes are glued to your face, watching the way that soft smile floods the room. 

“…You are being _kind_ , now.”  


He scoffs. His shoulders shake.

“I apologize.”  


“Why?”  


It’s said in jest – a play upon the earlier dialogue. His shoulders fall slack, head tilting. Maul narrows his eyes in good-humor as his lips lift into a smirk. You spare him another smile, world ending and bright, and he speaks with a light laugh.

“Do you _mock_ me?”  


“With much affection.”  


“So soon?”  
  
“Not many men are as kind as you – the others, as well,” you breathe, gathering the bowl from the tray and shrugging, “You have taken us from a bad place.”  


“You are quick to trust.”  


“Hardly,” You hand the bowl to him, eyes soft. “Now, eat.”

He squints again, crimson brow drawn together, as he takes the bowl and spoon from your hands and mashes the stew around – just as he’d done at dinner. This time, you see to it that he manages to scarf down a mouthful or two before speaking. 

“You did not need to take us.”  


A silent look. Amber eyes consider the words.

You continue. 

“You could have sold us at the markets. Considered our worth or kept us for our work – you could have _fucked us,_ or killed us, or broken us apart and given us to the soldiers here. You could have done many things, Maul. And _yet_ , the first question you asked of Jabba the Hutt was if we could _cook.”_  


You smile again. He wavers, spoon hanging in the air. You cross the room and kneel, hand touching his and pushing it towards his mouth. 

“ _Eat.”_  


It’s gentle. He ignores the burn of your skin against his. 

“An important question,” he rumbles, suddenly aware of his own characterization in your eyes – not that of a terrifying Sith lord… but someone who could be _admired._ It’s intoxicating.  


“We will earn our keep,” you say, tunic pooling around you as you squat, “You have my word.”

“… You speak Huttese?”

A slow blink. He’s chewing thoughtfully. He’s rather handsome, you think, when stripped of his posteriority and danger. His horns are short and rounded, and for a moment you’re tempted to reach up and touch them. 

“Yes,” you nod, eyes connecting with his, “Slave dialect as well as general. I speak basic too, Twi’leki and some Togruti – Toydari if I _must._ ”  


“Good.”  


You tilt your head. 

“You will assist me in the coming weeks. There will be many factions arriving in this camp. I will need a reliable translator.”  


Your lip quirks. “You are quick to trust.”

Maul mimics the expression, tapping the spoon to the edge of the tin bowl.

“In due time.”

As you exit his tent, he watches you move across camp. Finally, when he has no eyes upon you, he retreats back to the solitude of his now _very empty_ tent.  


You are merely a slave. Smart and pretty and kind. But, nothing more, nothing less. Absolutes are the way of the Sith, and as is the way of _his_ world. 

For now, he dwells on his curiosity with a full belly – the sight of your smile sticking to his ribs like a hearty meal. 

Curious, indeed.


End file.
